


If Time Is All I Have

by indigo_carter



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Basically, F/M, Fluff, and kissing, fluff and angst and comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-03-16 18:43:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3498923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigo_carter/pseuds/indigo_carter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Original Imagine: Imagine stumbling in on Dean drinking in the bunker and him telling you he’s worthless and that even in his dreams he’s a fuck-up, and trying to convince him he’s wrong.<br/>Reader Gender: Any (no smut in this part)<br/>Word Count: 1,500+<br/>Warnings: Low self-esteem (Dean), some John Winchester negativity, that’s literally it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I'll Waste it All on You

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: So this wasn’t an actual imagine (I don’t think), but it popped into my head and demanded to be written BEFORE ANYTHING ELSE, DAMMIT, so I let it happen. I’m hopeful for another part, if not a few, but we’ll see!

As you rolled over for what had to be the hundredth time, if not the thousandth, you caught a glimpse of the clock. 4am. Seriously. Whatever happened to sleeping well after exercise? You scrunched up in a ball as your muscles shrieked and rolled deliberately out of bed, landing on all fours and arching up to stretch your back. Standing, you stretched, then padded towards the door.

Wandering down the corridor, you heard the distinctive chink of ice on glass and turned to find the source of the sound, ending up in the library. You lingered in the doorway, peering in. Dean was sat on one of the arm chairs, perched on the edge of his seat, resting his weight on the balls of his feet, elbows on his knees, head in one hand, and a tumbler of whiskey in the other. As you watched, he scrubbed his hand through his hair and gave a slight moan of upset and pain. Your stomach contracted at the sound and your hands reached out uselessly. He carded his hand through his hair and flopped back in the chair, catching sight of you as he did so. His eyes closed, but not before you saw the hurt there. Despite his size, and the alcohol, and his general pig-headed attitude, in that moment he looked like nothing more than a terrified nine-year-old, and the ache for him which was blooming in your chest pulled you into the room.

“Dean?” Your voice was a whisper as you dropped to your knees in front of him. “Dean? What’s wrong?” You bit your tongue on the affectionate pet name which tried to escape, and placed a hand on his knee.

“Nothing. Go back to bed, Y/N.” He sounded gruff, like he hadn’t slept in a week.

“Dean, it’s 4am and you’re drinking on your own in the library. Something’s not right.”

“Don’t want to talk about it.” He’d turned his head away from you, his eyes still closed, and your stomach wallowed.

“Dean, please.” You let concern and fear seep into your tone, gripping onto his other knee and pulling yourself towards him until you were knelt between his thighs. “Please talk to me.” You’d only been hunting with the brothers for a few months, after they’d saved you from a rogue werewolf, but you’d quickly picked up that there were things you didn’t do: you _didn’t_ try to get Sam to eat junk food, you _didn’t_ try to follow your instinct in a hunt, and you _didn’t_ try to get Dean to talk about his feelings. Tonight, though, it felt different – like if you pressed in the right way, Dean might open up. As if to prove you right, he turned to face you and slowly opened his eyes. Gazing up at him, you couldn’t help but notice the way his mouth turned down at the corners like a small child trying not to cry.

“Sweetheart…” And that was all it took. A gentle, whispered pet name, and his eyes were suddenly swimming. “Oh god, Dean.” You pressed a hand to his face, cupping his cheek in your palm, as tears trickled from the corners of his eyes. Running your thumbs under his eyes, you tried to stem the flow, before giving up and rising to perch on the arm of the chair, pulling him towards you, wrapping your legs around his body, tugging his head and shoulders into the cradle of your arms and chest.

You sat that way for who-knows-how-long, one hand pressing his head into your chest, the other rubbing circles into his back as he clung to you and cried. Tears of your own rose up, tightening your throat and burning the backs of your eyes.

“Shh-hh, it’s ok baby, let it out.” You were murmuring into the top of Dean’s head, rocking him gently as he began letting out muffled sobs. _Crap…_ you had no idea what to do, so you stayed where you were until the frequency and violence of his sobs eased. Pulling back from him and cradling his head in your hands, you realised your legs had gone to sleep and bit back a curse from the pain of cramping muscles, pushing your discomfort from your mind and focussing on him. “Dean?”

“I-I screwed it up.” His voice was choked

“What? What Dean?”

“Everything.”

“That’s cra-” you stopped yourself and reconsidered your approach. He looked at you, thoroughly confused through the haze of tears still lingering in his eyes. “What makes you say that?” you kept your voice soft and modulated and calm, and brought your head down to rest you forehead against his. “Tell me what makes you say that. Please.”

“Everything I try to do, I screw up. Protecting Sammy, saving you, saving the whole goddamned world, and I fuck it up every time!” Anger began to replace sadness, but you kept your head where it was, kept your eyes glued to Dean’s, and felt him settle. “I can’t do anything, can’t do anything right. Just screw up and make things worse.” You waited, in case there was more to come, but he seemed to have run out of things to say.

“Dean, you…you don’t fuck up. You make mistakes, sure, but that doesn’t make you a bad person. Sometimes things happen. And sometimes they aren’t your fault. And sometimes they are, but that’s ok. Sammy’s still alive, Dean. He’s alive and he’s fighting – like you – to save everyone. But you both need to remember that you’re only two people. Just two people trying to save seven billion. Sometimes you won’t succeed. But sometimes you will, and that’s the important bit.” He raised his eyes to yours.

“And you?”

“What about me?”

“I fucked up saving you.”

“Wh…how?”

“You had a life, Y/N, and I couldn’t stop that being taken away. And then I didn’t stop you joining us. And since you’ve been hunting you’ve been hurt and I couldn’t stop it and I couldn’t make it go away and you’re so _fucking_ brave about everything…”

“Dean, my life was a dead-end. I had a crappy job in a crappy store, and then crappy werewolves came and…yes, shit happened. And yes, I’ve been hurt hunting with you, but Dean, I wouldn’t change it for anything. Wouldn’t change _you_ for anything.” He scoffed a little, but you forced him to make eye contact with you again. “I’m serious, Dean. I’m not saying the life we have is perfect – god knows there’s stuff about the _life_ that I’d change, but you? Hunting? Saving people? I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

“Why’d you keep saying that about me?”

“Saying what?”

“That you wouldn’t change me.”

“Why would I want to change you?”

“I’m a highschool drop out. I make money by hustling pool and scamming people. At any given time I have nothing going for me other than my attitude and even that’s beginning to grate.” He looked tired. He looked more than tired, and your heart ached for him. “I’m a grunt, Y/N, dad was right.” Anger flared in your chest. _John fucking Winchester._ The boys had – almost – nothing but respect for the man, but the things you’d heard, the stories you’d picked up on…you’d grown to almost hate the man.

“He. Was. Not.” Your voice was suddenly beyond your control, pitched low and powerful. “Dean Winchester, you are so much more than a grunt. You’re a fucking genius. You’re bright and funny and smart and strong. Your father had no idea how incredible you are, how dedicated you are to _saving_ people – you’ve died more times than I care to think about, and you know what? That makes you precious. You want to know why Sammy and I fight so hard? It’s so that maybe, just maybe, this time you won’t sacrifice yourself. Maybe, you’ll come home with us and we’ll get to spend a little while longer with you. Because when you’re home? You light up the bunker. I always know when you’re home because the kitchen smells of cooking and the garage smells of oil, and there’s always a mess to clean up. I like it that way, Dean.” Your voice faltered on the final sentence, and you realised your face was millimetres away from his, palms pressed to his cheeks, fingers tangled in his hair. His proximity made emotion bloom in your stomach, and the feeling you’d been trying to convince yourself didn’t exist loomed large in your mind, so large you had to get it out. “I love you, Dean.” It was nothing more than a whisper, words formed on an exhalation, but Dean heard. His eyes grew wide and his hands flew from where they were resting in his lap to cradle your back.

“Seriously?”

“Yes, Dean.” Neither of you spoke above a murmur.

“Jesus. I love you, Y/N. I…convinced myself you’d never feel the same, that I was wasting my time, that I was too big a fuck-up to deserve you, but _fuck_ , I love you.” In a single movement, your lips met his, and it felt – for just a moment – like everything was right in the world.


	2. I've Told You Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: There was a request from baby-lighten-up for a part 2 to If Time Is All I Have I’ll Waste It All On You, but I’ve managed to lose the exact request. I think my inbox ate it!
> 
> Character: Dean
> 
> Author: Frankie (spnsmutscribe)
> 
> Reader Gender: Any (Again. No smut, but definite implications for the next part.)
> 
> Word Count: 1,100+
> 
> Warnings: Mild angst. The mildest of mild smut (like…this is a teaser kind of mild…whoops)
> 
> A/N: So. I was right. There are more parts to this. It’s not plot driven. It’s not even smut driven. It’s just Dean comfort fic. And I rather like it.

It had been a few days since the library incident, and you’d somehow played it very cool. You hadn’t, for example, rushed up to Dean first thing after your paltry two hours’ sleep. You hadn’t made him breakfast or tried to cuddle him from behind when you gave him his coffee, or given in to the temptation to kiss the nape of his neck as he scanned the papers for a case. You hadn’t even tried to mention that night, for fear of disrupting some kind of figuring-things-out machination in his head. In fairness, you might not have taken the initiative, but he hadn’t tried any of those things either. Neither of you knew exactly what the other wanted and in truth, you were confused and actually quite hurt that he hadn’t tried to talk to you about the situation you’d suddenly found yourself in.

You were lounging somewhat precariously on an armchair in the map room, legs dangling over one arm, head and arms draped over the other, eyes closed. This was a time you took to yourself, a moment when it was just you and the air you were breathing and the weight of your own body. Quite why you’d decided to do you meditation in the map room eluded you, but it had seemed like a good idea at the time. You solitude was shattered when a gentle hand ran over your stomach, making you squeak and curl up like a hedgehog. A low rumble of barely-concealed laughter made you lift your head and you peered at the source of the sound. Dean stood above you, frozen, his hand pressed to your stomach by your thighs.

“Dean?” It came out as a gasp.

“Y/N.” He tone was serious, and you avoided his eyes.

“I…” You shook your head, unravelling and pushing his hand from your stomach. His brow crinkled as he watched you.

“What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong? What do you think’s wrong?”

“I’m not a mind-reader, Y/N.” He perched on the chair next to yours, twisting in place to look at you. You let your eyes slide closed again, resigned to having this discussion.

“I don’t understand what’s going on between us. I wasn’t kidding when I said I love you, you know.”

“I know.” Leaden weights landed in your stomach, a physical blow forcing the air from your lungs. You clenched your eyes tightly closed, balled your fists under your knees, and took a deep, shuddering breath. “I wasn’t either.” He whispered it, so quietly you barely heard him, and your eyes flew open to look at him.

“Then what the hell’s been going on the past couple of days?”

“I…had things to work through.” You couldn’t stop yourself from rolling your eyes.

“And you couldn’t have told me that?”

“Y/N, that night…I was shattered. In all possible meanings of the word. You slipped into my nightmare and gave me a ray of hope. Sometimes it takes more than hope and good intentions to fix something.”

“I’m aware of that, Dean.” Your tone was stiff, and you forced yourself upright, drawing your legs under you.

“I needed time to think.”

“About what?”

“About what you said. About why you and Sammy fight so hard. About dad. Maybe you’re right.” You bit down the exultant retort bubbling in your throat and looked at him from the corner of your eye.

“And…?”

“I can’t make promises, Y/N.”

“I don’t want promises.”

“I can’t even make ‘normal’ commitments.” He waved his hands in the air to make quote marks around the word.

“I don’t want normal.”

“I can’t say I won’t hurt you.”

“I know. I’ve always known that, Dean.”

“What do you want?”

“You.” It was a simple statement, but it couldn’t have been truer if you’d tried. “Just you, Dean. Just you, and me, and one promise.”

“What’s that?”

“That we can try.”

“That is one promise I can definitely make.” Dean’s voice was rough, and he slid from his chair, shuffling on his knees to sit on the floor in front of your chair. “I think I’ve been making that promise since the day I met you.” He flushed, a ruddy stain filtering into his cheeks and neck. You let a hand slide out from under your leg to trail down his hairline, briefly cupping his cheek in your hand, before mapping his jaw and throat with your fingertips.

“Kiss me.” He rose onto his knees, one hand sliding under your back to brace against the chair, the other sliding up your bicep, following the curve of your shoulder, to cup your cheek in his palm. Leaning forward slightly, you rested your forehead against his, your eyes locked. “I said kiss me.” You nuzzled at his nose until he tilted his head, and you slanted your mouth against his, the hand cupping your cheek instantly sliding to cradle the back of your head. The kiss was gentle, exploratory, learning likes and dislikes, and your hands crept onto his body. One arm wrapped around his neck, the other resting on his chest as you nibbled on his lower lip, a sound of surprise escaping his throat as you did so, his hands pulling you ever closer to him, a mew of pleasure escaping your lips, his retorting groan sending pangs of pleasure shooting through you.

He pulled you upright, his lips barely parting from yours, tugging you off the chair and into his lap, your thighs fitting snugly around his hips. You raked your fingers through his hair, gently scraping your nails over his scalp, enjoying the ragged breaths you could elicit from him, and slid your lips from his to his cheeks, his eyelids, his jaw – his stubble prickling your lips – down the column of his throat to the base of his neck. He tilted his head, giving you room, and you sucked on the soft fleshy muscle at his nape, enjoying the gasps he let out, before working your way back up his neck to the angle of his jaw.

“You’re beautiful, Dean.” You breathed the words into his ear, and his arms contracted around you, pulling you impossibly close to him.

“Not as beautiful as you, Y/N.” His arousal pressed against you, and you ground your centre down against him, your lips seeking his.

Snap. The lights – which had been previously left low – shot up to full brightness, and you cringed away from the attack on your eyes.

“Jesus, guys. Hang a hat or a tie or something.” Sam turned on his heel, slamming the door behind him, but you swore you heard him chuckle to himself as he padded back down the corridor. You met Dean’s eyes.

“I think that’s us told.” You poked your tongue out at him and pressed a chaste kiss to his temple.

“For now.”


End file.
